


20: Water

by light_source



Series: High Heat [20]
Category: Baseball RPF, Sports RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-05
Updated: 2011-09-05
Packaged: 2017-10-23 10:45:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,761
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/249430
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/light_source/pseuds/light_source
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>- It’s like the water’s an alive thing, like an animal, Tim continues. - And you’re like one of those riders in the circus that stands up on the horse. It’s got its own mind, and if you can stay on, it’ll run with you.</p>
            </blockquote>





	20: Water

the trouble with water is  
she'll always leave you for gravity

                            - Ani di Franco, “Hell Yeah”

 

\- Grauman’s Chinese theatre? Disneyland? The La Brea tar pits? We could go rollerblading in Venice - there’s a new medical-marijuana dispensary there. I swear they have dope fudge and doughnuts. For kids with migraines, he explains.

This is Zito cycling through his usual litany of ideas for entertaining tourists.

\- Or maybe the desert? he continues. - We could drive out to Joshua Tree, stop off in Indio for a date shake.

Tim rolls his eyes, sighs. - Let’s _do_ something.

//

Zito, who learned to surf in his twenties, has a no-surfing clause in his contract, but he figures one violation won’t kill him. Just to be sure, he checks the surf report before they leave, and, satisfied, puts two boards, one long and one short, in the back of the Range Rover.

Driving up the Pacific Coast Highway is the best way Zito knows to lose the feeling of LA; the sun’s angle intensifies off the water, and the strip malls and fast-food franchises begin to thin out pretty quickly once you’re past Malibu. There’s wildflowers along with the trash on the shoulder, and in the distance, off-shore, are hulking oil derricks, which, if you squint and are feeling romantic, might be taken for breaching whales.

They pass a road house festooned with Miller High Life signs that’s got a couple dozen big Hawgs parked in front of it. Without warning, Zito pulls off sharply left, into a gravel road that leads out to a bluff overlooking a strip of greyish beach. The sun’s disappeared behind high clouds, and the surface of the water in the distance is satiny and slate-colored.

He parks the Land Rover at the edge of the bluff, puts on a pair of blade sunglasses, and cinches up the neck strap.

\- It’s high tide, so the beach breaks’ll be good, and there’s not that many guys out there, and most of ‘em are down by the point break, says Zito. - Wind’s offshore, so we’re set. You couldn’t ask for better.

There’s a smattering of surfers bobbing out past the break line, most of them at the south end of the beach. Strung out along the beach itself are a few walkers and runners and people on beach towels soaking up the late-summer sun.

\- It’s pretty close to the Valley, so this place can be crawling with Thousand Oakies, says Zito, - but it doesn’t look too bad today. There’s not enough rip. Which is just perfect.

Lincecum’s leaning against the Land Rover, uncurling the velcro strap on the board leash Zito’s handed him, and Zito throws him a nylon quarter-zip shirt to go with the board shorts he’s already lent him.

\- Put that on, he says. The water out here’s about sixty degrees. It’ll be cold at first. But you’ll get used to it. The idea is we’ll keep you moving so you don’t feel it.

\- What’re you gonna do?

\- I’m in charge of you not getting killed, says Zito. - I’m giving most of the waves to you.

He’s busy zipping himself into his own wetsuit.

When they get to the bottom of the bluff, their heels sinking deep in the sun-warmed sand, Zito looks at Tim and smiles.

\- I feel like Gidget with this fucking short-board, says Tim, pouting a little.

\- You look like her, too, says Zito, - but those board shorts don’t go with the pigtails.

Tim wheels suddenly to the left and whacks him with the end of his board, knocking Zito nearly off his feet.

\- OK, point taken, says Zito, grinning.

\- Now you should know, he continues with an exaggeratedly serious expression - there’s really nothing to this. One question, though. If you slipped on wet pavement, which foot would you put forward to break your skid?

Tim tries it. - Right, he says.

\- OK, says Zito. - That’s pretty much all you need to know.

//

Zito’s right. The cold is like a body blow, and as they paddle out, the salt water stings and burns at Tim’s eyes and the inside of his mouth. At first he doesn’t think he’ll be able to breathe; then he wonders if he’s starting to lose feeling in his fingers and toes. But after he catches the crest of his first wave and rides it diagonally in to shore, the numbing effect of the cold begins to fade and something else takes over.

Zito doesn’t say much. He supplies Tim with a few rules - closest guy to the break gets the wave; don’t drop in on another guy’s wave - stuff that seems pretty obvious to Tim, who’s used to the hierarchies of sport.

\- So c’mon. Just follow me and do what I do, says Zito. - Lead with that right foot. When it feels right, crouch up.

A few tries and more falls later, and Tim’s figured out how to crouch, and then when to stand up. A dozen more, and without Zito telling him to do so, he’s walking the board, angling just right to cruise in on the shallow beach-breaks that are moving right-handed from the north end of the beach. Eventually he’s so lost in concentration that Zito hangs back well behind the break and just watches, marveling.

Tim’s so wrapped up in what he’s doing that he doesn’t notice Zito’s no longer surfing.

- _Don’t look down_ , shouts Zito, just before Tim wipes out, tumbling into the foam, only his leash foot and the bobbing board visible as the wave pans out towards the beach.

Paddling back out, Tim realizes Zito’s sitting there watching him, straddling his board, arms locked across his chest. As Tim gets closer, he can see Zito’s smiling.

\- So what d’ya think? shouts Zito. He’s shivering. The wetsuit won’t keep him warm unless he keeps moving. Fresh currents of cold water are insinuating themselves into the space between his skin and the neoprene, so he straightens himself out on the board and paddles over to where Lincecum’s waiting.

\- What I think is that it’s unbe-fucking-lievable, says Lincecum, shaking the salt water out of his hair and blowing out his nose. His cheeks and nose are pink with cold, and he’s got a huge grin on his face.

\- How do you not just want to do this all the time? he asks.

\- Look around, says Zito. - There’s a ton of dudes around here sleeping on the beach and living out of the backs of their cars. They’ll take a job for awhile, these guys, but then when the surf’s good, they just stop showing up for work. It’s not a sport; it’s a life. Shit, there’s guys in their eighties who’re still doing it, like Spider.

\- Spider?

\- Famous surfing geezer, says Zito. - One of the originals, went to Hawaii and started surfing right after World War II.  He's also the guy who also invented the catamaran, and the skeg, that little fin on the bottom of your board. He did it in his spare time, like when he wasn’t surfing. I think he’s still around, living in Maui or La Jolla or something.

\- And by the way, Zito continues, - I gotta come clean. I didn’t say this before, but I’m not supposed to be here. It’s in my contract. Pretty standard. Front-office guys don’t like the idea of you bashing your head in on a reef while you’re chasing big waves.

Tim’s face falls. - Well, fuck.

\- I got _way_ too many bad habits, says Zito. I’m gonna be as old as Spider by the time I can surf again for real, he reflects. - Just hope the beaches are still here.

\- Let’s go in, Zito says. - I’m pretty cold and I think I’m past getting warm again.

//

They change out of their wet clothes behind the open car doors, Tim swapping his board shorts and shirt for a jeans and a sweatshirt, and Zito peeling off his wetsuit, which is now sticky and sandy and cold. He slips gratefully into the warmth of his jeans and fleece pullover, and he rubs his hair dry with an old beach towel from the back of the jeep.

In their haste to get to the beach, they forgot to eat, so they stop for fish tacos at a little trailer with a shack next to it across the highway. Their eating is somewhat delayed by Tim’s having to pick all the flecks of cilantro off his. Zito offers him a squeeze of lime, but he just shakes his head.

\- Disgusting. Tastes like soap, he says, grimacing. - I’m only eating this stuff cause I’m starving.

\- Soap’s a good thing, says Zito. - Lean into it.

After a couple of beers and some chocolate ice cream, they’re jonesing for the warmth of the front seat of the Land Rover, which has soaked up and held onto the afternoon sunshine.

They head back south on the PCH, the setting sun blanking the rearview mirrors with orange glare. They’ve both still got their sunglasses on, and Tim’s pulled his knee up to his chest, his bare right foot up against the glove box. There’s sand everywhere, crusts and piles and trails and fragments, on the seats and floors of the car. Tim’s hair, like Zito’s, is sticking out at odd angles, stiff with salt and wind.

Tim cracks open two bottles of water, hands one to Zito, and sucks the other down. He rubs the side of his face with his hand; the drying seawater makes his skin itch.

\- So. You liked it? asks Zito.

\- ‘Like’ is way not strong enough of a word to describe how I feel about it, says Lincecum.

\- I think it’s gotta be in your blood, says Zito. - I’ve never seen anyone pick it up that fast.

Tim grins.

\- Now I’m gonna be spending all my spare time trying to figure out how to go surfing, says Tim. He sighs. - But fuck. Once they find out I’m doing it, they’ll write it out of my contract too.

\- It’s like trying heroin or something, he continues, - and then while you’re doing it, it’s the greatest experience of your life, but it doesn’t matter, you gotta stay away from it.

Zito’s silent a moment, considering this.

\- Yeah, well, there’s lots of things like that in life, says Zito. - The trick is deciding what you can get away with.

\- Heroin itself won’t kill you unless you overdose, Zito continues. - It’s what you’re willing to do to get it that wrecks your life.

//

As Zito navigates them through the rush-hour mess on the contorted route back to west Hollywood, Tim pushes back his seat-back and closes his eyes. But he’s not asleep. Zito hears him mumbling to himself, and his toes are slapping the floorboards and his fingers are twitching. This wouldn’t be surprising, except that the stereo’s off.

\- Not to interrupt or anything, says Zito, - but what the fuck?

\- I can’t talk right now. I’m still floating, says Lincecum.

Zito sighs. He’s tired, and has a headache from the cold of the seawater and the sun-glare of the high clouds.

Lincecum levers his seatback up and takes off his dark glasses.

\- That motion, it’s still happening to me, he says to Zito. - I can still feel it. You know - the way the water pushes around you under the board. I never felt anything like it. It’s like you’re flying, but you can feel the air underneath you, lifting you and moving you around.

\- It’s like the water’s an alive thing, like an animal, he continues. - And you’re like one of those riders in the circus that stands up on the horse. It’s got its own mind, and if you can stay on, it’ll run with you.

//

\- Shower, says Zito as they tramp in to the entryway. They’re tired and achy from the long drive back, and they’ve dropped their sandy shoes and gear by the front door.

Tim feels worn, broken down by the wind and the water. But also strangely relaxed, as though he’s survived an ordeal and come back to life.

\- C’mon, says Zito, - I don’t think you’ve seen this.

He heads down the central hallway and takes the steps to the second level two at a time, and then abruptly turns right into another, narrower half-flight of stairs that Tim hasn’t noticed before. At the top is a glass door that leads out into the falling darkness.

\- Once you’ve tried it, says Zito, - it's hard to go back to taking a shower anywhere else. It’s one of the reasons I fell in love with this place.

Up here on the roof,  there's a partly enclosed patio. There are plants, some of them trained to vine up the walls, and a couple of Adirondack-style chairs at the edge of the dropoff. One vine bristles with tiny white flowers that are fragrant and glow white in the dusk. In the inside corner is a three-walled shower, open above and on two sides to the soft air of the evening, enclosed partly by teak screens. Under the eaves, towels are stacked on a teak-and-brass rack that leans against the back wall.

Zito twists open the valves on the showerheads, and adjusts the hot water till steam is rising invitingly into the evening air and the sound of the water on the aggregate floor is like the patter of a courtyard fountain.

\- Lights? asks Zito. He’s unbuttoned his jeans and pulled off his fleece, twisted off his watch and put it in his pocket.

Tim shakes his head.

//

\- Wait, says Zito, catching Tim by the arm just before he slips under the stream of warm water. Zito pulls him back and covers his mouth with his own, kissing him tentatively at first, and then fiercely, his tongue licking deep into Tim’s mouth, his teeth not far behind. It’s urgent; they haven't touched in a while, and it's as though Zito has finally claimed something he’s been waiting for.

When Zito pulls away to get his bearings, Tim’s eyes are locked on his, waiting. He’s painfully hard and ready, wanting it so suddenly it’s like a shock. The easy camaraderie they’ve had today has vanished, and they’re back into something Tim can’t control.

\- Salt, Zito says softly, his lips in Tim’s hair, on his neck, kissing, biting, sucking his skin with a ferocity that'll leave marks. His unshaven skin is rough, the scraping sensation of it is bracing, like the feeling of sand on the soles of Tim’s feet.

\- Salt. You taste like the ocean, he murmurs in Tim’s ear.

Their hands are all over each other, slick with the steaming water, and for Tim the pleasure is almost intolerable. The water’s warming him from the outside - he hadn’t realized how his body had held onto the cold of the churning surf - and Zito’s mouth and hands have kindled the desire that’s warming him from the inside.

Without warning, Zito turns off the water, and suddenly they’re standing there in the warm darkness, steam still rising off the pebbled floor. Zito squirts some soap into his palm, rubs his hands together, and uses his hands to spread the soap all over Tim’s body, slippery and warm, his armpits, his thighs, his bare chest - _unh_ \- and it’s all Tim can do not to cry out when Zito takes his cock in one hand and his ass in the other, stroking. He feels the muscles in Zito’s belly clench with pleasure when he does the same, jerking him off, first slowly, and then faster, more forcefully, and he feels Zito’s cock swell up to its full length.

The cool of the evening air, intensified by their wet skin, makes the warm slickness of their soapy hands even more inviting, and Tim realizes he’s close, so close. He feels Zito arc uncontrollably and stiffen, his balls tighten, and then, and then, the feeling of Zito’s hand on his cock, and his cries, and his hot come splashing on the cooling skin of his belly sends Tim into ecstasy.

Zito’s breathing hard, but he still has the ghost of a smile on his face. He twists the valves back on, and the warm water hits them like a benediction. Everything, salt and sand and soap and come, is rinsed away without their moving, and for a long time they’re just standing there, their arms around each other, breathing.

Tim reaches up to kiss Zito gently, tipping his head back as their lips meet.

\- Thanks for taking me, he murmurs, his tongue teasing the corner of Zito's mouth.

Zito says nothing, but simply kisses him back.


End file.
